


Empty Roost

by Moon_Rose (Moonrose91)



Series: Wings in Disarray [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Bullying, Gen, One Shot, Social Isolation, This is not a happy thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2000670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moon_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan knows he'll lose his mind if he stays in Gascony, but he's not entirely sure that going to Paris is right either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Roost

**Author's Note:**

> I'm mean.
> 
> Also, fun discovery; on my nth time rewatching "Friends and Enemies" I discovered that the sword d'Art carries is his father's sword. His own was stolen, he stole a Red Guard's in return and used that. And the Red Guard that stole his got away, and the sword he carries doesn’t look like the one he stole from the Red Guard.
> 
> I decided that this means that d'Art carries his father's sword, first because the idea of killing the man who with the sword of the man he killed was too poetic to let go (I would have, admittedly, done this had this happened to me; poetic justice) and later to keep a piece of his father with him.
> 
> And also because he lost his sword.

D'Artagnan stared down at his parents’ graves, the ones farthest from the church itself, and sighed as he folded his demon wings (if anyone truly knew what wings a demon had) tighter against his back before he knelt down in the snow, carefully brushing the snow off his mother’s grave.

“Hello Mother,” he greeted softly in Italian, remembering quiet evenings sitting next to her, learning the arts of the home after spending the day with his father learning the arts of being a gentleman.

Of learning a language that would brand them as outsiders, if their darker tone of skin (hers darker than his) and odd wings (his mother’s black swan wings damaged in some fashion and his…his) hadn’t already. “I am thinking of living in Paris,” he stated, looking up at the gray sky of winter that threatened them all with more snow.

His wings twitched and pulled around him slightly, as if to hide him from all around him. “I know…I know, it probably won’t be different, but I can handle Devil’s son and abomination,” he continued and finally looked back down at the gravestone.

“But I do not think I will remain sane if I have to listen to them talk poorly of Father or…or call you a Spanish whore one more time,” he continued softly, clenching his hands into fists, knowing that that insult was a complete lie.

For all that his mother spoke fluent Spanish and Italian, she had been from Turin, the capital of the Duchy of Savoy. It was something she made him swear to keep quiet, especially when they heard rumors of a Spanish raid on the French-Savoy border.

“But…I do not know what I’ll do, if it does not work out in Paris,” he continued softly and reached over to brush what little snow had collected on his father’s fresh grave.

“Maybe…maybe I will go to the colonies, or take to the seas. But I cannot stay here,” d’Artagnan finished and slowly stood, his wings flaring briefly before he stared down at the grave.

“I miss you Mother, and your guidance,” he whispered and carefully set the carved crucifix on her grave before he focused on his father’s grave.

For a moment, words were nonexistent. He had almost killed an innocent man, or had an innocent man kill him, because he had rushed headfirst into a fight, driven by grief. He had almost shamed his father with the sword he had sworn to avenge him with and…

He took a deep breath and felt his wings curl around him tightly. “I will carry your sword proudly, Father, and hope to do it justice,” he stated, in language of Gascony, before he turned on his heel and left the cemetery.

He ignored the whispers that followed his steps, checking Fleur before he checked his tack, and mounted up quickly, the mare not even twitching at the flex of his wings. He carefully turned her away and rode away from the village and towards the farm.

*~*~*

D’Artagnan doesn’t look up from his stitching as Uncle Jean-Pierre settles on the bench farthest from the stool in front of the fireplace. “If you are here to ask me to leave, you will discover that I am already planning to pack my things and leave within the week. I will sign over holdings to you, but I will expect a small sum monthly, enough to take care of Fleur,” d’Artagnan stated as he continued to repair the shirt.

“What makes you think you’ll get to keep the horse?” his uncle asked.

“Because Fleur hates everyone but me, as the nasty scars my cousins all have attest to,” d’Artagnan answered as he looked up at him.

“That and, without Fleur, I will not leave,” he added and watched his uncle lean back, d’Artagnan looking back down at his work.

“Charles…” he began, only to fall silent when d’Artagnan looked up at him.

“Uncle, please don’t act as if you are asking for my sake. We both know you are not,” d’Artagnan interrupted softly.

His uncle didn’t bother to correct him and d’Artagnan folded up the repaired shirt and began to work on the next. It was soothing, the gentle in and out of the needle through the fabric, a quiet thing that soon had him singing softly in Spanish, as his mother had when she had taught him.

The next time he looked up, his uncle was gone.

*~*~*

D’Artagnan inhaled the scent of the stables and horse as he carefully buckled the saddlebags onto the saddle, making sure everything was in place. His week was up and he murmured soothingly as Fleur side-stepped, not happy with the fact he was riding without his wings. He ran a hand along her neck before he lead her out, the crunch of frost under her hooves almost…settling something inside him as he mounted up smoothly, feeling Fleur shift under him.

He guided her toward the road and soon he was on his way, not even bothering to look back.

*~*~*

“Well, look who’s back,” Porthos stated, causing both Aramis and Athos to look up from the care of their weapons as the young Gascon walked into the courtyard.

Gone were the long strides he used to enter the garrison the first time, seeking vengeance for his father’s murder. Now, he walked quietly, as if unsure of his place in the world.

It was a…stance Porthos was familiar with. Well, in a manner of speaking.

Porthos had made himself bigger instead of shrinking in on myself to hide how uncomfortable he was, spreading his wings out instead of binding them to his back. Then again, his wings didn’t allow for that, but the point remained “I didn’t think he’d come back,” Athos stated.

“I have to confess, neither did I,” Aramis answered as Porthos watched the way d’Artagnan’s shirt shifted with that bound wing movement and didn’t say a word.

He had known the boy would come back.

When d’Artagnan noticed them, he stilled entirely, his shirt doing that shift thing bound wings did.

Porthos leaned back slightly and smiled, feeling his wings shift a bit closer to him, subconsciously trying to encourage the boy to come to them.

After all, in Porthos's opinion, the Musketeers could _always_ use someone like d’Artagnan.

**Author's Note:**

> I like the idea of d'Art knowing how to speak multiple languages thanks to his Mother too much to let that headcanon go.
> 
> Also, TV Show d'Art seems to be an only child. Then again, I've only seen up to Episode 5 yet, so...yeah. There is that. Canon Divergence probably.
> 
> Meh.


End file.
